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by redredrobin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ALL CAPS, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Sam Wilson, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sharing a Bed, Threesome - M/M/M, V-shaped polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8206688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredrobin/pseuds/redredrobin
Summary: It's a tossup which one of them gets the nightmares.





	

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to twentystitches for the speedy beta. all other errors are my own.

'Hey man,' Sam says, quietly.

James turns his head. Sam's breathing has betrayed him for about ten minutes now, but he doesn't look until prompted. Focus narrows to the lines of weariness on Sam's face, then up to his eyes. 'Hey,' he answers. He snakes an arm around him just as Sam reaches out. They both move slower than they’d like. Steve has the lion's share right now: he's half-sprawled on James, his head over James' heart, comfortably asleep with James's normal arm around his waist. His sketchbook lies open on the bedside table next to the .45, the sheets crumpled all the way to the chair next to the bed; he just crawled in.

Sam settles, nipping lightly at James’ pulse-point. His mouth explores; James tilts his chin up. His breathing slows, becoming synchronous with Sam's. It’s a tossup which one of them wakes from nightmares. 

Sometimes, he asks. The other two never call it a prison of helplessness. There’s no rank for suffering, only the shade of it and whether it washes off. Sam and Steve dream of being stuck, watching. James dreams of bowing his head to the yoke. It crawls in and hooks deep.

Most of the time, there’s little talking. Someone will get shifted into the middle, bolstered solid against the ghosts coming to call. More than once, James has ended up on the couch with Sam playing with his hair with a nature documentary on mute. He does the narration. Orcas are _assholes_. Capuchins, take them or leave them. Predictably, birds are his favourite. His voice floats even as the sun pours in through the living room window and makes it hard to see clearly with the light around him. The man wears a pair of wings. James doesn’t have to do a goddamn thing; the metaphors write themselves.

(‘You’re thinking about something really corny,’ Sam says. James raises his eyebrow. His mouth goes crookedly into a smile, the too-soft, too-brief flash of lovestruck affection before it turns into a smirk. ‘Oh, yeah. Cornfields in the Midwest,’ he replies. This is a brilliant comeback. It gets him shoved off the couch, and Steve laughing from the kitchen.)

Two fingers walk up along Sam’s side, until James playfully flattens his palm on Sam's stomach, abruptly hauling him up so they're cheek to cheek before he leans in to press a soft kiss to Sam's jaw, moving up. He smirks when Sam's mouth opens for him. Slow, and long; Sam chases him if he pulls away, his fingers tracing James’ cheekbone.

They stop when Steve shifts, ready to apologise if he wakes.

False alarm. 

James settles for nosing at Sam idly, waiting to be batted away, watching for the smile it usually elicits. Neither happens. ‘You all right?’

‘Yeah,’ Sam says, after a moment. He drops his hand to cover James’s, curling his fingers as they slide into the spaces between James’s metal ones. ‘I’m not getting any more sleep.’ 

The clock reads 4:01AM in red, blaring numbers that James can see with his eyelids closed. Reveille is at 0600H. He seriously considers making out with Sam for the next two hours. His expression must’ve implied as much, because Sam huffs softly, and turns over.

Their hands are still twined, but so much for distracting him from the eddies of his thoughts. Comfort, like all else, is the application of force. It’s too slippery for him to hold. He knows how to stand still and let Sam or Steve use the razor blade. Their touch took getting used to. It’s pleasant enough.

Sam wakes up and radiates restlessness, it takes strategic retreat and a little planning. 

James drops his nose into Steve’s hair, inhaling the scent of the shampoo he uses, nudging him. He murmurs, then turns his head on James’s chest. His eyes flicker open, then blink steadily. He doesn’t have to frown to make the query clear. James likes that about him. Through the fits and starts, there’s this. He never has to ask often for space or silence, and Steve is unapologetic about what he offers. 

‘Sorry I woke you,’ James says. Sam, next to him, is still completely unaware of the danger.

‘S’allright.’ 

Steve stretches; he moves up, evidently prepared for nuzzling. James’s hand slips under Steve’s shirt, tracing his spine. Then he taps something in Morse.

Steve’s attention snaps to Sam. He steals a quick kiss from James as he slides over, sandwiching himself in between them; James sits up and adjusts the blanket. Two hours is more than enough to make breakfast. Maybe there’s a documentary on.

‘Hm? Hey — _hey_ —’ 

Smiling, he’s nearly off the bed when Sam’s hand flails out to catch his wrist. James gives it an experimental tug; Sam’s grip tightens.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ Sam asks. Steve looks up as well, raises both eyebrows. They both know better than to fight that tone. James flexes his fingers. Sam doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘You’re staying right here.’

There’s no time to answer that either, ridiculous for a guy who's supposed to have one of the fastest reaction times on the planet. Sam just pulls James in until he brackets the other side, back to chest. James’ fingers roam along his skin; Sam hums.

He stays.


End file.
